Griselda

Griselda is greedy, I’m sorry to say. She isn’t contented with four meals a day, Like breakfast and dinner and supper and tea (I’ve had to put tea after supper – you see Why, don’t you?)

Griselda is greedy as greedy can be. She snoops about the larder For sundry small supplies, She breaks the little crusty bits Off rims of apple pies, She pokes the roast-potato-dish When Sunday dinner’s done, And if there are two left in it Griselda snitches one;

Cold chicken and cold cauliflower She pulls in little chunks – and when Cook calls: “What are you doing there?” Griselda bunks.

Griselda is greedy. Well, that’s how she feels, She simply can’t help eating in-between meals, And always forgets what it’s leading to, though The Doctor has frequently told her: “You know Why, don’t you?”

When the stomach-ache starts and Griselda says: “Oh!”

She slips down to the dining-room When everyone’s in bed, For cheese-rind on the supper-tray, And buttered crusts of bread, A biscuit from the biscuit-box, Lump sugar from the bowl, A gherkin from the pickle-jar,

Are all Griselda’s toll; She tastes the salted almonds, And she tries the candied fruits – And when Dad shouts: “Who is it down below?” Griselda scoots.

Griselda is greedy. Her relatives scold, And tell her how sorry she’ll be when she’s old, She will lose her complexion, she’s sure to grow fat, She will spoil her inside – does she know what she’s at? – (Why do they?)